What I didn't say
by BlackandWhitePhoto
Summary: We all do things to protect ourselves, but what do you do when the one thing you should've said, could've changed everything?
1. Chapter 1

And I just thought that you should know  
That I'd been holding on while you'd been letting go  
Can I be so bold  
'Cause all this talking all to you's just getting old  
Then it's not too late to say it right this time  
'Cause I know I said I'm sorry  
But that's not what I meant to say

What I really meant to say  
With every little breath I take  
I'm not the only one who makes mistakes  
Just think of all the ones you made

Chris Daughtry – What I meant to say

~o~

Another near death experience. Another life risking case. After months that's what it had taken to get either of them to realise, one because he genuinely didn't know and the other because he was stubborn and refused to admit to harbouring such a weakness. Being outside, but tied to each individual through friendship it was easy to see what was happening between the pair. He may not have been a genius but even from early on he'd seen it between the pair. Just one chance meeting with the doctor in the company of the detective had made it obvious that the two were destined for great things together. Now Geoff Lestrade wasn't a man who believed in fate or destiny, how could you be in the job he had? It was said after all, if you believed in that kind of thing, that everyone had a destiny. But how could someone be destined to end up a pulped and bloody mess at the hands of a killer? No, in his job you couldn't afford to believe in such things. And yes it went against everything he'd thought, still did in fact but as ever Sherlock Holmes was the exception, watching the pair of them and being acquainted with each even he could tell that the pair were meant to be.

~o~

Sitting back in his chair Geoff Lestrade snorted. He'd just suffered his latest encounter with the pair and things certainly didn't look good. Geoff considered both men his friends but in that moment he'd never wanted to punch Sherlock Holmes more. After everything he and John had been through, Sherlock was treating John worse than ever and the doctor was beginning to feel the strain, now Geoff was under no impression that the doctor couldn't handle himself, he'd been in a war for God's sake, but catching the man's eyes not fifteen minutes before when he'd been leaving had had Geoff breaking for him. Those normally bright tawny eyes looked tired and the weak smile the man had offered when he'd entered the office hadn't even been the shadow of the usual smile, it barely reached his lips never mind his eyes. He was hurting. Geoff had had to fight back a wince of sympathy for him. Sherlock was managing something the army and the war hadn't. The DI knew better than to assume that Sherlock didn't know he was doing it and from the pained look in John's eyes he knew that John knew it too.

Checking the time Geoff stood from his seat, stretching the tension from his muscles. Technically there was another hour or so left of his shift before he clocked off but Sherlock, despite all his other faults at the moment, was still playing true to form and had solved the case. So as it stood there was only paper work to fill in and that could wait, he had more important places to be. Shrugging on his coat he clocked out waving a quick goodbye to the others, they knew better than to ask where he was headed this early, even they'd noticed the drastic change in the doctor's demeanour.

For a few weeks now this was how it played out, particularly after a big case when John and Sherlock had been into the office to hand over the information of the latest case and Sherlock had bragged about how clever he was, listing the reasons why before telling them anything useful; Geoff would leave early to meet John at the pub. It had happened for the first time almost two months ago. Lestrade had noticed how uncharacteristically down and angry the doctor had looked after one of the post case Sherlock gloating meetings, so he'd text John with a pub invitation, an invitation which had been pounced on by the doctor. So when he'd finished work Geoff had headed over to meet John. When he'd finally relaxed enough to enjoy it John had seemed happier and it had become a regular thing between the pair. It was the only time John could properly escape Sherlock and talk to someone who genuinely understood. After time these encounters became less about being in each other's company and sharing a few drinks to John opening up and spilling all about Sherlock's latest attempts to push him away. And though each time John denied that it was getting close every time Geoff walked into the pub and saw John in the corner booth, which had quickly become their booth, the man looked worse and this time was no different. The man sat huddled in the corner of the booth his tanned skin pale, huddling tight into the neck of his jacket against the soft chill that wafted into the room each time the door opened.

Shaking his head with a sigh Geoff moved over to the bar, sliding a fresh pint in front of John when he reached the table. It was a few moments before John reached out to close his fingers around the glass, lifting it to his lips and taking a deep drink. "I can't do it anymore, Geoff." The voice had been so small and broken that Geoff wasn't sure he'd heard it at all, much less from the man before him. John was a strong man, a soldier. But looking at him now none of that was visible; he just looked so small and tired. It was in the silence that followed that Geoff Lestrade realised two things. John Watson loved Sherlock, he'd laid himself bare, opening up to the man in a way that no one would ever have thought possible when it came to Sherlock Holmes, but there was so much more to it than that. John wasn't interested in men, never had been. But then there was Sherlock. It had taken a lot for John to open himself up to the idea of a relationship with a man and Sherlock had used that to hurt him, taken that vulnerability and used it to wound instead of protect the doctor. Probably the only person that would ever love Sherlock so unselfishly, probably the only person Sherlock would ever love. No one else was ever going to have that place in Sherlock's heart where John had forged and nestled himself.

The other thing that Geoff realised with a flush of pain and anger was that Sherlock had successfully managed the one thing that the war hadn't. Sherlock Holmes had broken John Watson.

~o~

It was several hours later that John returned to the flat, mustering a small smile for Mrs Hudson who was on the way out. With a small sympathetic smile she rested a hand on John's arm and squeezed gently. That small action of comfort almost made John cry; the old lady and the DI had been John's lifelines through this whole thing. As Geoff took John to the pub for a pint, Mrs Hudson took John into her flat for a cuppa. They were both the reason he'd lasted this long.

Taking the stairs slowly John entered the flat, pausing at the door. Sherlock was spread over the whole length of the sofa surrounded by books and papers, leaning over the coffee table which was crowded with various, precarious looking containers and beakers filled with questionable looking substances, John's laptop open at his feet. The magazines and other papers that had been on the coffee table this morning had been swept aside, littering the floor in what, once, might have been a pile. In his excitement at whatever reaction was currently taking place on the wood of the coffee table, Sherlock had obviously, and uncaringly, knocked them over. For one ironic moment John could empathize with the magazines, he'd once been a sturdy tower and he'd been knocked and pushed, his structure weakening under Sherlock's influence and as was inevitable he'd fallen and broken. Had everyone seen that coming? Had each knocked comment and tiny shove alerted them to the crumbling, cave in that John was heading for as plainly as he had seen the magazines do on numerous occasions?

Sherlock barely looked up as John entered, not even a hello, never mind one of the more intimate greetings they'd shared when they'd first started out. "Not even worth a hello now. That feels great." John sighed moving into the kitchen and throwing the scarf over his chair as he passed, Sherlock's spare scarf, he'd taken to wearing it recently because it smelt of Sherlock and it let John, somehow, feel close to him.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, not taking his eyes from his experiment. "Are you really going to sulk over the lack of greeting? Honestly John that is so," he paused, waving a hand thoughtfully in the air between them. "Primary school. Can't you see I'm busy?" There was an impatient edge to his words, one that had been slipping into his tone more often when he spoke to the doctor.

Maybe it was the tone, maybe it was the words, or maybe it was the unconcerned air that Sherlock had delivered them with, like he really didn't care. John didn't know, but he finally snapped, slamming the mugs he'd been filling down onto the side. Splashes of boiling water leapt from the mugs and rained down onto John's hands but John paid them no heed, the stinging pain was absorbed by the greater pain that was already knotted in his chest, fuelling his anger as he stomped back into the living room. "Busy? Should I apologize for being such an inconvenience?" Still Sherlock didn't look up, only a frown of what John assumed to be annoyance flickered across his expression and that probably hurt more than if Sherlock had punched him. "Answer me something." Moving across the room John stood on the opposite side of the coffee table to Sherlock, he wanted nothing more than to kick the coffee table aside so he could be sure of Sherlock's attention but was more than aware of the chemicals sitting at his knees and, God help him, even now he didn't want to hurt the stupid man. It had nothing to do with the fact he needed the small buffing, protection of the table between them. "Do you even care? About me?" He clarified. "Did you ever? Do you," the next question tripped him up and he paused, swallowing as the words caught in his throat. "Did you ever love me?"

Finally Sherlock looked up. But his expression didn't offer comfort or reassurance; it was blank except for a frown of confusion. "Is that what this is about?" John held back a wince at that, what hurt most about it was the genuine confusion that was colouring Sherlock's tone and expression. "Answer the question, did you ever love me? I need to know Sherlock, I need to hear you say it." Holding his breath John waited for Sherlock to reply, to tell him he was being stupid, that of course he loved him and that he'd been an idiot for making John feel that way. But nothing came. Just that same frown playing at his face before it slid away, about the same time the colour drained from John's face as he felt his heart break.

Despite keeping his face blank Sherlock's heart sped up. You didn't have to have his level of intellect to know where this was going. John's face was breaking him inside, that part of his mind that had been screaming at him for two months was yelling again, louder than ever, screaming at him to do something, say something. 'Yes! God yes you love him! You always have! Tell him!' But he couldn't, his throat was tight, blocking any words from escaping, his body mutinied too, muscles locking in place to keep him from moving. He knew what he'd been doing for the past months had been hurting the doctor but he never realised things had gotten this bad. How could one feeling do all this? One stupid emotion and it had ruined everything. This was why Sherlock generally shied away from such emotions. Closed himself off and shut down. Because he didn't know how to deal with them, he couldn't lay them out and analyse them, work out theories and conclusions. The only things he knew for certain was that they terrified him and they hurt. Hurt almost as much as John's voice when he spoke again, the words shaking, trembling with pain, betrayal and hurt. "You can't say it can you?" Swallowing hard John turned away from Sherlock.

"Remember that first case we did together?" It was after a long silence that John spoke again, his voice quiet and calm, enough so that it chilled Sherlock and made him shiver, a tight feeling of nausea twisting his stomach. There was a grim acceptance in John's tone, broken, painful acceptance and Sherlock's body flooded with pain. "You said I was stupid. You were right, as always. I was stupid to believe that you cared for me, stupid enough to think that if I gave you time you'd maybe open up to me a little and I was stupid to think that you'd change even a little to make this work." Now John turned to face Sherlock. The look in those tawny depths made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.

"You're a sociopath. And sociopaths by definition can't understand emotion, you never told me you loved me because you never did." Sherlock blinked slowly, holding back a wince. That had hurt, John's words had cut him deep. And again his mind was screaming at him again. 'Tell him! You never said the words because you were scared, not because you don't feel it!' A humourless laugh slipped past John's lips as he ran his hands over his face scrubbing away the tears he refused to let fall. He was a soldier for Christ's sake, he could deal with this. But even soldiers hurt, his mind offered unhelpfully. John snapped over come with anger, letting that take him instead of the pain. Anger he could deal with. "You never even cared about me! You just played along so that I wouldn't leave you. But guess what Sherlock? You've pushed me away anyway." The anger had quickly dispersed by the end, dipping into that same pain filled tone, and he paused for only a moment before he turned for the door, heading straight down the stairs and out of the flat.

And even as the sound of the door slamming closed met with the sound of his heart breaking Sherlock still couldn't move. Frozen in place to deal with a pain that he didn't know how to relate to. There was so much that had gone unsaid but Sherlock couldn't move to chase after John, just watched as the only man he'd ever loved, the only man that had ever been able to make Sherlock a better man, walked from their flat and possibly his life. For once in his life Sherlock didn't know what to do. How could he fix things? They'd come so far together and he knew he couldn't let it end this way. He'd never stop loving the doctor and it had taken this for him to realise. He had to tell him, John had to know.

~o~

The weather was bitter outside. It took John a long time to realise just how much. The burning in his fingers and cheeks had been over shadowed by the pain in his heart. Had he really just walked out on Sherlock? Had he over reacted? Could they come back from this? His mind was that busy bouncing around these same painful thoughts that he wasn't sure how long he'd been walking, he just knew it had been a long time, it had been growing steadily darker around him, matching his mood.

A scuffle from an alley to his left drew John's attention and he paused in the mouth, peering down into the gloom. Two shapes were visible, one propping the other up, arm slung around the waist of the smaller shadow. The supporting person turned to face John when the movement caught his attention. "Help! Please, he's been mugged. He needs a doctor, he's bleeding. Call an ambulance!" The panic in the guys voice spurred John into action, kicking any trepidation he was feeling about the situation to the side as he jogged down the alley. "I'm a doctor." He informed both men as he skidded to a stop in the gravel, phone already in hand and '999' already dialled. Two things registered simultaneously in John's mind and he realised all too late that this was a trap. There was a sharp prick at the back of his neck and the 'injured' guy reached out to grab John's wrist in a tight grip. The phone was dropped in the struggle, John's military instincts kicked in and he lashed out defensively even as the drugs dragged a haze into the corners of his vision. The last thing he was aware of was his elbow connecting with flesh and the accompanying crack of bone. He was filled with a grim satisfaction at the knowledge that he'd broken one man's nose as the blackness swallowed him, with the accompanying soft patter of blood on concrete and he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the epic slow post of this chapter, I was having some major character identity issues. All fixed now though, shout out to my beta Harpyquinn who without, this chapter _really_ wouldn't have been possible.

* * *

What hurts the most  
Was being so close  
And having so much to say  
And watching you walk away  
And never knowing  
What could have been  
And not seeing that loving you  
Is what I was tryin' to do

Rascal Flatts – What hurts the most

~o~

Hours? Days? Sherlock wasn't sure how long he'd spent pacing the small living room waiting for John. An irrational part of his mind, the part that's fuelled by fear, a part that he usually paid no regard to, kept telling him that John wasn't coming back. Thankfully logic would intercept this thoughts brutally and he'd run through the evidence, scolding himself for being so ... emotional, John didn't have a job so no source of income, no way to replace all of his belongings, he had nowhere else to go; Sherlock had discounted Sarah early on, she and John had remained friends after they had ... broken up? Or whatever the correct term would be, Sherlock still was still unsure, but they hadn't remained that close, and he'd repeatedly called and checked. John's outburst and sudden absence had shaken Sherlock badly; badly enough that he was starting to doubt himself. Not Good.

Geoff shook his head to break his attention. He'd come here with an agenda and had gotten far too caught up with watching the repetitive motion of Sherlock's pacing. A frown tugged at his brow and he cleared his throat in a vain attempt to get Sherlock's attention. The DI must have asked the same question at least three times, only to be ignored by Sherlock each time. "Sherlock." He tried again, louder and firmer this time. The man didn't look at him but by now Geoff knew better than to assume he hadn't been heard. "Where's John? He was meant to meet me at the pub yesterday but he never showed," here he paused, a few things clicking into place in his head. John's uncharacteristic absence with no word to Geoff that he couldn't make it, and Sherlock's ceaseless, almost nervous pacing, which had only faltered the moment Geoff had asked the question. It seemed several things had just clicked in Sherlock's mind too. It took Lestrade only a few moments to place the final pieces, following Sherlock's train of thought, adding up everything that he already knew and everything that had happened since he'd arrived at the flat.

Sherlock had been petulant and dismissive of him, more so than usual, because he'd assumed that Geoff would have been in contact with John. It was a logical leap to make after all, the two had become good friends in the past months due to ... circumstances. With that knowledge Sherlock's whole demeanour changed. But not for the better. The pacing from before resumed but there was a certain degree of desperation to the movements. Fast and fiery.

This was not encouraging and it made Geoff's chest pang. What had happened between the pair for John to go awol and Sherlock to snap out of his frankly, twatish behaviour and show concern for his partner. "What happened?" Geoff's voice, when he spoke again, brooked no argument. He wanted answers, John was his friend and he'd been getting into a deeper and dirtier rut for the past two months and the last time Geoff had seen him it had seemed that the walls had finally collapsed. "What did you do? Or more correctly, what didn't you do?" Sherlock looked up then, shocked by both the tone, one that Sherlock wasn't sure he'd heard from the DI before, layered with worry and anger, and the realisation that Geoff was right. This was all down to him. He'd already worked out as much but to hear it from someone else irrationally made it more real.

It was a long time before Sherlock could even articulate a reply, which wasn't particularly eloquent. "I ..." Meeting Geoff's eyes Sherlock paused, feeling a spark of anger and latching onto it. "I didn't do anything! Can I help it of the man thought he could make anything with me work? That I could ever 'feel' anything? Never mind 'love.' I'm a sociopath dammit!" The anger quickly fizzled out, leaving him empty and aching inside. The space that John usually filled. He missed the anger, needed it back because that was better than the despair that was there in its absence. But the despair was better than the nothing that there had been before John.

~o~

It was days on from that when Lestrade actually made it to the flat again. He'd been giving Sherlock a bit of a wide berth with the exception of phone calls. And it was during this visit that they had their first major break.

The flat was silent. Geoff sat in awkward silence at the far side of the room to Sherlock who was pouring over the, limited, information the DI had brought with him. After a quick check it became apparent that John had indeed fallen off the radar, and so the search had begun. There was a knock on the door of the flat downstairs, blatantly ignored by Sherlock, and since Mrs Hudson was out for the day visiting with her sister it fell to the DI to answer it. Heaving himself up with a weary sigh Geoff headed for the stairs.

Minutes later he returned with a neatly addressed envelope clutched in his hand and a small frown colouring his features. "It's for you." Sherlock didn't even bother to look up, but Geoff didn't need to see his face to know he'd rolled his eyes in irritation, lucky he'd been acknowledged at all really. "Of course. I live here, it's not a huge leap, even for you, to assume that I would get mail." There was even a muttered insult regarding his intelligence. "Hand written." He added, ignoring the insult, as though it would make a difference. Sherlock didn't even dignify that with a response. The man's attention was quickly pulled elsewhere when the laptop open at his feet, John's laptop Geoff noted with the flicker of a smile, pinged. Sherlock all but pounced on the laptop his expression changing quickly as he clicked and he was up in a moment, stepping over the coffee table, unconcerned for the papers he scattered, eyes intent as he snatched the letter from the DI.

Quickly, yet thoroughly, appraising the envelope Sherlock moved to the kitchen and laid the paper neatly on the table top, inspecting it with the large magnifier, blatantly ignoring each of Geoff's questions, he scooped up a knife and slit the envelope open carefully. Still lost with the man's sudden interest in the letter Geoff moved over to the sofa, peering at the screen in search of answers. It was Sherlock's site that was pulled up, Geoff guessed he'd been scouring the comments and general fill of the site for anything useful. The ping has signified a new mail message which was currently stretched across the screen. Not unusual. But the content was.

'Just a note offering some Handy knowledge. Nawh, it felt cruel to leave you Alone on this when you're Obviously so emotionally crippled, what an Appalling predicament to be in detective, i'd offer my condolences but i wouldn't mean it, from the Way you've been ceaselessly pacing the flat and your lack of appearance at the yard i'd say it's not Taxing to assume you're more than aware of how much of a coward you Shouldn't have been, Oh i'd feel bad for you if this wasn't so much fun, i sent you a clue, Now i won't insult your intelligence and shall assume you know exactly what i have just offered you, i have the utmost faith in your genius, detective.

a letter just came for you. read it.

see you soon sexy.'

~o~

It was hours after the email that Geoff got his first look at the letter. Sherlock had been carrying it everywhere with him, why wouldn't he? As of yet it was the only clue they had as to John's whereabouts. The letter, when he saw it, made little to no sense to him, though he supposed on later reflection maybe that had been rather the point, the letter had been intended for Sherlock and his exceptional intellect, he'd had it figured in a matter of minutes. As it turned out it had been a simple cipher, almost as simple as the email, only after it had been pointed out to him, with great irritation on Sherlock's part, had Geoff realised just how simple it had been. '_JOHN WATSON'_ each of the capitals had been one of the words of John's name, the poor spelling and general grammatical layout of the email had been intentional.

After much coaxing Geoff had finally managed to convince Sherlock that there were, in fact, on the same side and that he had a personal stake in this too, John was his friend. However, as he'd thought, the letter made no sense. As far as he could see it was just a random jumble of words and one number:

TOREEY8 HLERDOS

EWPSSUE PHODEAX

OEWIETY.

"And what the bloody hell does that mean?" Geoff frowned after he'd read it. The question had barely left his lips before the letter was snatched from his fingers and Sherlock exploded at him. "Answer me something, _Detective Inspector_, how is it you managed to get to where you are, when you're so obviously an imbecile?" His voice was calm but his icy blue-grey eyes where burning. Geoff could practically feel his skin blistering. Blinking after a moment Geoff spoke again, not taking the insult to heart. Sherlock was upset and when he was upset he lashed out. "I can honestly say I don't know. Now, would you care to educate this imbecile and explain?"

"It's a perfectly simple cipher." Sherlock grumbled, throwing himself onto the sofa, rather more violently than was strictly necessary. Tugging a sheet of paper from beneath a pile of books on the coffee table, which tumbled and scattered on the floor with a nosy thump, he proceeded to scribble out the groups of letters as he explained in that world weary way he had when he thought everyone was being intentionally obtuse. "Five groups of seven letters, yes?" The question was asked in that patronizing 'I'm far too clever for this' way. He'd stacked the groups atop each other into a grid, drawing lines vertical lines to separate them into columns."There see?" He glanced up to see Lestrade's blank face and growled in frustration. "Bloody hell, Lestrade! DO I have to do everything? I obviously gave you too much credit for your intelligence." In a fit of temper he scribbled through the letters, rewriting them so they read:

THEPO  
OLWHE  
REPOW  
ERSDI  
EDSEE  
YOUAT  
8SEXY

"Read it left to right." Sherlock paused barely giving Geoff time before he threw the pen down with another growl, pushing his hands deep into his hair and ruffling the strands. Before he could throw another insult Geoff blinked. "_'The pool where powers died see you at 8 sexy_.'" Only slightly appeased the Detective Inspector had worked it out Sherlock glared. "Took you long enough."

~o~

Despite what he'd been ordered to do, and really as it that was going to stop him, Sherlock was at the pool as instructed, albeit slightly earlier. It was now just before seven, when Geoff had left to get things organised Sherlock had all but pounced on the laptop and rearranged the time. Upon later reflection Sherlock will realised what a huge mistake that was, by being predictable he'd played right into his tormentors hands.

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped when John stepped out, bomb strapped to his chest and paler than Sherlock has ever seen him. The detective had thought it couldn't hurt any more but just as he'd started forward John's voice had snapped out, harsh and unforgiving in the silence. "No! Don't come near me." The words cut through Sherlock like a hot knife and he winced. It took a few moments for Sherlock's emotion wracked mind to pick out the wince in John's tone, and looking at him more closely he took note of the pained expression on his doctor's face. Only then did he follow the man's tawny gaze. There sat in the centre of his chest was the flickering dot of a sniper, the red stark against the colour of his silk shirt.

"Nawh! Isn't that just the cutest. Your little face! I could just eat you up!" The voice rang out through the room, bouncing back off the tiles. "Did you like my little gift Sherlock, hmm?" Sherlock lifted his head, blue eyes burning with barely masked rage, his normally stoic exterior cracking with a flash of emotion as the owner of the patronizing words swaggered into view from the cubicle behind the one John has emerged from minutes before. "Jim, Jim from the hospital. Did I really make such a fleeting impression?" He questioned, dropping his head forward to rest his chin on John's shoulder with a pout playing at his lips. "Though I suppose that was rather the point." He finished brushing a cheeky kiss to John's cheek, a vicious grin on his lips as he flicked a meaningful look at Sherlock, in time to see the possessive flinching of Sherlock's muscles.

"Did I hit a nerve? You should keep your dog on a leash, letting it stray, tsk tsk," he paused reaching out to pinch John's cheek, eyes never leaving the detective. "Anything could happen to him." For his part Sherlock managed to keep his calm facade, the only tell was seated deep in his eyes, hidden well but close enough to the surface that Moriarty could see it. Smirk still playing at the corners of his lips the man moved forward, stepping in front of John and closer to Sherlock, hands cradled casually in the pockets of his pristine suit trousers, his voice still held that mocking tone when he spoke again. "Jim Moriarty." At the lack of reaction he feigned hurt, he knew Sherlock knew who he was, they'd had dealings before, wincing and pressing a hand to his chest. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm wounded that after all this I didn't get a warmer welcome." In reply, in one smooth movement Sherlock drew John's gun from where he'd secreted it in the waistband of his trousers, levelling the barrel at the smug face of the man who, Sherlock realised with a sinking feeling, had pulled him away from John from the start. It was his games, increasing in danger with every move, that had made Sherlock subconsciously cringe away from John, to protect him, scared that he'd lose him. An emotionally wounded John was better than a dead one.

"Oh. You wound me Sherlock, you honestly do." Jim sighed genuinely sounding put out by his rivals actions. "You're going to shoot me? How predictable and boring." His intonation lifted toward the end of the word with sickeningly childish glee. "You're severely underestimating my worth to you. I'm you Sherlock," he continued almost softly, a small smile twisting his lips. "We're equal," here he lifted a hand and tapped his temple with the pad of a finger. "Up here. There'll never be another for you like me, we're made for each other. We're the same." He didn't get to say anything further because John had darted forward with a low growl, curling an arm tightly around his throat. "You're not him Sherlock. Run, go!" He turned his head to speak directly into Moriarty's ear, almost as a threat. "Shoot me and we both go up." There was barely a pause as Moriarty laughed, one hand hooked around John's forearm. "Oh, such well trained pets, so loyal!" His face fell and he was serious again when John tightened his arm. "And you underestimate me again," he sounded genuinely disappointed in Sherlock as several other red dots joined the one on his chest, a prominent one skimming his forehead.

John immediately released Jim, stepping back mortified. Only then did his eyes flick to Sherlock's. "You and your pet need to be careful Sherlock," the cheerfulness has evaporated from Jim's voice as he smoothed out his suit. "Because you'll never win. Now, I'm afraid I'll have to leave you to it, places to be crimes to fix, you know how it is." With one last vicious smile the man left, the doors clanging shut behind him and echoing for what felt like hours, before Sherlock was moving, he was knelt before John in seconds, pulling the vest from his body, flinging it across the floor. Sherlock then made for the doors, only to return moments later, pacing and rubbing the barrel of the gun over the back of his neck in agitation. "Are you alright?" John didn't answer, trying as he was to gather some composure. It took Sherlock shouting the question again to get his attention and then he was distracted by the desperation and heart wrenching worry in the tone. "M'fine," he cleared his throat and took another breath, trying again when his voice broke. "I'm fine." To which Sherlock nodded, seemingly satisfied, but no less agitated. "That thing that you," he paused clearing his throat in an obviously awkward way. "That you offered to do. It was ... it was good."

John was just wondering how to reply, or if indeed he needed to when Sherlock was suddenly there, knelt on the tiles before him, one hand cupping his cheek, which John leaned into, pressing his nose to the palm. "Thank you." And the relief was clear in his tone. But again before John could formulate a reply he was interrupted by the banging of the doors and the reappearance of Moriarty. "Sorry boys," the man announced, Sherlock span, in one fluid action, levelling the gun at him once more. "I'm so changeable, it is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my only weakness." Once again the playful edge to his tone dropped away as smoothly as the smile from his face. "You can't be allowed to continue," he sucked in a breath through his teeth. "I would try to convince you but everything I have to say has probably already crossed your mind." There was barely a pause in which Sherlock slid his gaze to John who nodded subtly, just a tiny twitch of his head, trust so evident it made Sherlock's heart jump. "Probably my answer has crossed yours ..." Slowly he dropped the gun, the barrel no longer pointing at Moriarty but the bomb vest feet from his shoes. There was a soft hitch in the tension, the room thick with it, even the seemingly unflappable Moriarty acknowledged it, rolling his head fractionally, eyes never leaving Sherlock's. And just like that, with all but a flex of muscle the silence was shattered, the thick sound of a shot followed by the ear splitting sound of a bomb.

~o~

Voices. That was the thing that got Sherlock's attention when he stirred, or rather, the distorted noise that should have been a voice. It was taking longer than he would have liked to focus, his mind, his eyes, ears, everything was mutinying to leave him blurry. Certainly not a feeling he liked. When he could focus enough he darted up, far too quickly for his bodies liking and he stumbled, the owner of the voice that had roused him, Wilkins, her realised after a moment, caught him. His intense eyes swept the rubble even as he tried to stand on his own, gaze frantically searching. "John ..." he managed when he'd managed to get his voice to cooperate and he tried to move, only for his traitorous legs to give on him again, leaving him frustrated that his transport was still reeling with shock. But his answer came from over to his left amongst the rubble where he'd last seen John, his heart clenched and it was more painful than the ringing, cloudiness in his head. "He's alive!"


	3. Chapter 3

What about now?  
What about today?  
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?  
What if our love never went away?  
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?  
Baby, before it's too late,  
What about now?

Chris Daughtry – What about now

~o~

Blood. Horror. Flashed of soot blackened skin, dotted with flakes of plaster. Guilt. Crushing pain ...

When Sherlock had finally laid eyes on John his heart had shattered. It hadn't been his John they'd dug from the rubble. The broken, limp, shattered body wasn't John. Even when he saw the sandy blonde hair and familiar curve of lips, those adorable ears and nose through the dirt, soot and blood, oh God, so much blood, Sherlock had refused to believe it was John. _Couldn't_ believe it.

Amidst the complete blankness that had over taken him, Sherlock was aware of the paramedics talking to him, fussing and trying to usher him outside to the waiting ambulances. And even though he couldn't let it out, frozen as he was with crippling fear, he felt a volcanic flood of anger burn his veins, hot and violent, towards the paramedics, toward Moriarty, toward Lestrade and Mycroft and, the one that hurt most, he was furious at John. John who was being carefully bundled onto a stretcher, John who was covered in his own blood, John who was so pale and still, barely breathing. John who was breaking Sherlock's heart.

And in that moment Sherlock Holmes had done something he'd never before done. He prayed.

They couldn't take John from him. How could Sherlock live without John Watson? ... He couldn't. Sherlock Holmes had never needed anyone in his life, but God, God he needed John Watson. Damn him. That smile, that giggle, those jumpers and those hands, those perfect loving eyes and lips. Sherlock's chest tightened all the more at the thought that he might never again feel those lips and his breath caught in his throat, his vision clouded at the edges as he watched the team of medics pluck the stretcher from the rubble and move outside.

Only when he was about to lose sight of John did Sherlock move, bolting for the doors, not paying attention to the stabbing pain that shot up his leg and across his ribs. It may as well have been someone else's pain for all he registered it, he was so detached from anything, everything. Everything but John.

Bundled into the back of the ambulance, Sherlock had refused to ride in his own, why were these people so stupid? He needed to be with John! Sherlock reached out to take hold of John's hand in his own, that normally steady hand was pale, so much so that it made Sherlock's stomach lurch. _Oh God, please. _Blanking the paramedic fussing with the machine around the foot of John's stretcher Sherlock leaned in pressing his forehead to the side of John's bloody cheek, mindful of the way his curls brushed the oxygen mask strapped to his face. "This isn't over. We've come so far, just hold on John. Hold on, please. I'm right here." He whispered, clutching John's hand for the lifeline that it was. "Hold on."

~o~

"... As we commend our brother to the ground ..."

Numb. Sherlock was numb. Numb and alone. All these other people standing by the graveside didn't have a clue. Selfishly Sherlock believed that none of them had the right to be there, none of them loved John as much as he had. As he did. Not one of them felt so completely dead inside. The tears running down their cheeks were nothing to the pain weaved into Sherlock's very soul. Because as dramatic as that sounded, it was solid truth. That little nest John had made for himself inside Sherlock was empty now, hollow. Just like the rest of him. His chest ached in a way he never thought possible and his throat and his eyes stung with the tears he refused to let fall, not in front of all these strangers, he wouldn't share his pain with them because none of them truly understood. He was consumed by pain and he welcomed every bit of it. And why shouldn't he? His John, his brilliant, beautiful John was gone and this pain was all he had left of him, of the man he'd ... And he hated himself so much but he couldn't bring himself to say it, even now, not with all these strangers around him. John ...

Hours later Geoff stepped up behind him, a hand hesitantly dropped to rest on his shoulder followed by a voice, rough with grief. "Sherlock ..." Here Sherlock could hear a wisp of the pain festering inside his o0wn chest, Geoff had lost John too. He understood. He'd know John, the same John that Sherlock had, the same John that all those others stood around his grave hadn't, and he'd known the real John. He'd known Sherlock's John. He knew how much Sherlock was crumbling inside. And that one word had been enough to break him. All that grief he'd refused to let out before came flooding out. His chest heaved and his shoulders shook as the first hot tears drew painful, burning trails down his cheeks. And for the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes cried.

Half an hour later found Sherlock curled beside John's head stone, Geoff by his side. Both men were in much the same state, one that was only shared between the two of them, a private moment that no one else would ever be privy to. And despite his all consuming grief Sherlock's respect for the man grew. This man was the only other person on the Earth who shared his pain, even if it was only a fraction of what he was feeling. At this moment, and from then on, Geoffrey Lestrade would be comrade. When Sherlock managed to speak moments later, for the first time since he'd been told of John's death, his voice was barely above a whisper, cracked and broken with emotion and he spoke knowing Geoff would be the only one to ever understand, he'd be the only person who'd ever get to hear him say this; ever get to see him so human. "I never ... I didn't say it. I never told him ..."

~o~

_It had been after a case. They were walking back to Baker Street far too high on adrenaline when John had spotted it, a tiny bundle of charcoal fur among the rubbish. He'd started at the softest, heart melting mew that had sounded from beneath a rain washed cardboard box. Pausing for only a moment he'd moved the soggy cardboard to find a fluffy, hungry kitten nosing at a lump of plastic bag hopefully. _

_Sherlock had twisted his lips in distaste as John had scooped it up, cradling the small body against his chest. And he'd seen it coming before John had opened his mouth. "No." John had frowned then, glancing at the kitten in his arms before turning the most adorable expression on Sherlock. "We can't just leave him." And really, how was anyone meant to be resolute with those tawny eyes looking at him like that combined with the way he'd laughed when the kitten had licked and nuzzled his cheek, Sherlock's heart had actually swelled and stumbled a few beats at the sound ...It took minutes before he caved, making his displeasure known with a heavy sigh. "Fine. Fine. But you can tell Mrs. Hudson." The smile that pulled at John's face as he closed the distance between them was worth it. The man had gone onto his toes then and brushed a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I love you."_

~o~

Ducking his head Sherlock pressed a kiss to the curve of John's head stone. "For all my life I am yours," he whispered. "I love you."


End file.
